“Good,” Orren said.
“No Mark XXXIV has ever shown a major malfunction or defect during field trials,” Ziggy said. “I doubt very much that I would have been the first. While a wise precaution, the trials are largely a formality, a chance for Bolo and commander to become familiar with one another.”
“Well then,” Orren said, “we’re just going to have to fast-track the familiarity part right here. I’ll spend as much time as I can with you before our arrival at Delas, and I’ll wear my command headset whenever I’m in another area of the ship. How does that sound to you?”
“That should suffice admirably,” Ziggy said.
“Are you disappointed we’re going to Delas instead of the Melconian front?” Orren asked.
“It is an honor to serve,” Ziggy said. “I will perform to the best of my abilities no matter where I am sent.”
“Standard answer,” Orren laughed. “But how do you really feel about it?”
“I am confident,” Ziggy said, “that we will eventually see combat in both theaters of war.”
“Assuming we survive Delas,” Orren said.
“I always assume survival,” Ziggy said. “After all, it’s impossible for me to carry out contingency plans in the event of my own destruction.”
“True,” Orren said, again laughing. “Being dead does stop such plans I suppose.”
“I know there can be no higher purpose for a Bolo than to end its existence fighting in the cause of humanity,” Ziggy said. “But it is certainly not something I will plan for.”
“Good to know,” Orren said. “But you don’t mind if I worry about my death just a little, do you?”
“You are free to worry about what you would like to worry about,” Ziggy said. “Are you afraid of death?”
Orren shook his head. “No, I’m not afraid of death. I’m more afraid of dying stupid.”
“I’m not sure I completely grasp the meaning of `dying stupid’?”
“If I have to die,” Orren said, “I want it to mean something. That’s all.”
“Excuse me, Orren,” Ziggy said, “my external sensors are on standby mode, but I have indications that there is an unauthorized intruder in the cargo hold.”
“Power up,” Orren said. “And give me a location and indication of who it is.”
Orren watched as the screens in front of him sprang to life, showing different views of the cargo bay around them. His worry was Melconian spies. They would love to get information about the Hellrails on the side of Ziggy. And since he and Ziggy were alone here, separated from the other XXXIVs, Ziggy would be the most logical place to find such information.
“Sure wish we could power up some of the anti-personal batteries,” Orren said.
“We are on a starship, under speed,” Ziggy said. “Use of any of my weapons is prohibited by protocol, and would likely breach the hull and even destroy the ship.”
“I know that,” Orren said. “I was just wishing. Even the magazines for my sidearm were taken when I came on board.”
On the screen the intruder appeared as a shadow along the edge of the far side of the cargo bay.
Orren glanced around the command compartment, then opened a few storage areas. “One hundred and ninety megatons of firepower, and what I really need is a bayonet.”
He finally located the handle for the emergency manual hatch mechanism. It was the right size to make a suitable club in his hand.
“Open the hatch quietly,” Orren said, slipping on his command headset.
Orren, as quietly as he could move, went out and down to the deck, staying close to the Bolo’s tracks as he headed toward the entrance to the cargo bay. The lights overhead were turned low to save energy, with the only focus being on the Bolo. That left many deep, dark shadows along the walls.
“Go ahead ten of your paces and then to your right,” Ziggy said through his headset.
Orren did as Ziggy told him, letting the Bolo, with its many sensors, be his eyes and ears.
“The intruder is a human in civilian clothing,” Ziggy said. “Move along the cargo bay wall twenty more paces.”
Again without saying a word Orren did as he was told, moving silently in the darkness of the shadows.
It took him a few, heart-pounding moments to get to the place Ziggy had directed. But he couldn’t see anyone.
“Where is he?” Orren whispered into the headset.
“Behind you,” Ziggy said.
Orren turned to come face-to-face with a burly older man stepping out of the shadows at him.
For an instant Orren thought his heart would stop. He reacted as he was trained, striking out hard and fast with the handle.
“Whoa, there,” the intruder said, stepping quickly out of the way of the blow.
The intruder grabbed Orren’s arm before he had even finished his swing. Then with a quick twist, he spun Orren around, forcing Orren to let go of the handle. It clattered across the deck, the sound echoing through the cargo bay.
The next thing Orren realized, the intruder had him in a light choke hold.
“Careful with that,” the intruder said calmly, close to Orren’s ear. “Can’t an old soldier get a look at your shiny, new Bolo?”
Three
I have detected ground vibrations at a range of sixty-two hundred meters. An infrared scan detects a squadron of eighteen Kezdai infantry attempting to infiltrate the front line. They are not moving. They have doubtless heard my approach, and are hoping to avoid detection. I slow slightly and turn away from them, to lull them into a sense of security.
We are sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes, fifteen point nine seconds into our patrol, and my internal sensors reveal that Major Veck is sleeping in his command couch. I see no need to wake him.
I load a cluster-bomb into my number three mortar and fire. Thanks to my noise cancellation circuitry, the shot is barely audible in the Command Compartment.
I observe the round on my sensors as it arcs over, deploys its canister parachute, and begins to shed a swarm of independent bomblets, fluttering like maple seeds, each guided by its own heat-seeker. There are eighteen explosions spread over a period of four point seven seconds. I watch as the infrared signatures fade.
Target terminated.
The engagement has taken 37.9241 seconds. Major Veck stirs slightly in the crash couch, but does not waken.
As of this moment, Major Veck has spent 82.469 percent of his time since planet-fall in my Command Compartment. While I have no direct experience with which to compare, it is my belief that this is unusual behavior, except under full combat conditions. While the current threat level is high, and the Kezdai have maintained a pattern of harassment attacks along the central front, we are not currently in a full combat situation. Logic dictates that the commander would wish that he and his human command were in a prepared, but rested condition should hostilities again escalate.
The need for rest is not something with which I am directly familiar. When a Bolo is not needed it is put in a standby mode to conserve power, but this is a matter of practicality, not necessity. But my programming includes detailed information on human physiology. My Command Compartment can provide the minimal needs for human life, shelter, food, water, breathable air, and waste disposal, indefinitely, but my program leads me to believe that these provisions are truly minimal. The human machine requires rest, exercise, companionship, a myriad of physiological needs that I am at a loss to fully understand. What I am certain of is that my Commander has chosen a course of action that places him and his command at less than optimal combat readiness.
While much of my attention is currently occupied with the mechanics of the patrol, as well as constantly updating threat scenarios and formulating probable responses, I am applying spare processor cycles to determining the cause of this behavior. Though Major Veck’s course of action may seem contrary to logic, it is most probable that he has reasons unknown to me, or that are beyond a Bolo’s understanding.
But I must remain aware.
There are protocols for refusing an order in extreme situations, or in lesser ones of alerting a commander’s superior of a potential problem. While those protocols seem quite clear when examined in my hard memory, they become dauntingly complex when applied to real-world situations.
Furthermore, I must consider one other possibility, that the reason for my Commander’s behavior lies not in any fault in him, but in some deficiency in my own performance. Major Veck has called into question my hyper-heuristic capabilities and my battle assessments repeatedly, most recently, and most significantly when we came to the aid of Lieutenant Lighton. Though I have full diagnostic routines on all my systems and have discovered no malfunctions, I am troubled.
In theory, any Mark XXXIV should be identical to any other when it leaves the assembly bay. But from that moment on, the personality gestalt of each Bolo is shaped by the experiences that it has, and its interaction with its commanders. Is it possible that I, in the short time of my existence, somehow evolved in an unfavorable way?